


Carol's Knife

by SelkiePunk



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelkiePunk/pseuds/SelkiePunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl knows what it means when he finds Carol's knife. And he knows she's behind that door. . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carol's Knife

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into Fan Fic. :s This piece takes a small scene and makes it longer/internal to Daryl. It might be part of a larger series. Please give feedback. :)

     Daryl Dixon sat before the door. Carol’s knife in his hand.

  
     She hadn’t just disappeared. She was dead, but she wasn’t disappeared. Disappeared would be too much to hope for.

  
Earlier that day, him and Carl, walking through the tunnels, clearing walkers. Trying to push back the endless onslaught of the dark, and

what he’d told the boy.

  
      Carl wasn’t a boy anymore.

  
      “The worst part was how she was just gone. Like it wasn’t real,” Daryl said.

  
      Remembering his mom. And the two things he’d chosen to tell Carl about her. That she liked her wine. And her Virginia Slims.

  
      Not that she sang off key, and how he’d always kind of liked it when she did.

  
      Not that she stood at a cash register all day, and that’s why she liked to lay down when she was home.

  
      Just that she liked her wine. And her Virginia Slims.

  
      Because it wasn’t about his mom, and there was no point feeling any of that now.

  
      "So the bitch burned herself up, did she?" Merle’s reaction. "Well, little brother, she wasn’t much in the mothering department, was

she? You’ll be fine." The black prison phone against Daryl’s ear, and how he held it there so tight it left an indentation. Because he didn

’t care about the grease on the prison phone against his skin. And if he didn’t press it into his ear, his hand would shake. And the feeling,

building in his chest, how he had to fight it back.

  
      He’d gripped the phone, because he had to hold onto something. And Merle was watching through the wire-meshed glass. Merle

wanted him to be tough.

  
      He was tough.

  
      He just had to hold onto something.

  
      Like that phone. Or this knife.

  
      Carol’s knife.

  
      He’d steered Carl past the utility closet. Said, “I’ll come back and get him later,” as the weak walker pressed against the blocked door.

Daryl hadn’t known, but he’d suspected. It was when he found her knife, he knew.

  
      It was Carol.

  
      He slammed the knife into the concrete. The clang echoed in the dim tunnel.

  
      Carol was a walker.

  
      He slammed the knife down again. The blade clanged, scraped. Forged of chromium steel: small, but deadly. Slight and pretty. The

blade didn’t break.

  
      She’d been chased. T-Dog and her. T-Dog had gotten over-run and Carol had struck out with her knife. It had lodged in the walker’s

collarbone. And that’s when she was bit.

  
      Or soon after.

  
      Then she’d run into the utility closet, barricaded the door, and the dying walker’s fall had blocked it. Hell, maybe she’d even killed that

one.

   
      Then she’d died from blood loss or the fever.

  
      Daryl slammed the knife into the concrete again.

  
      The door bowed-out, pressing against the corpse.

  
      Carl had shot his mother to keep her from turning.

  
      “That isn’t my daughter,” Carol had said when it was time to bury the tiny body. “Sophia died a long time ago.”

  
      Carol was dead.

  
      The door pushed into the mass of flesh.

  
      The knife slammed into the concrete. Daryl’s teeth clenched as he slammed the knife again, again, again.

  
      The knife refused to break.

  
      Daryl lunged to his feet, pacing in a tight circle. He faced the door, held the knife high. Then he wavered, and made himself see her

face. Not the sly smile, not the speculative way she’d look at him, openly appreciative and inviting. But dead. The yellowed, ruptured eyes.

Grey skin, damaged and rotting.

  
      Carol was dead.

  
      He owed it to Carol.

  
      Daryl grabbed the corpse blocking the door. Dragged it aside. Blew out a breath - agonized and cleansing. Triggered memory- the

smell of char, of burnt siding and cheap insulation. The ashes of the house, the bed, his mother. Obscene, repulsive, and inviting.

  
The knife held high, the sense-memory overlaying his vision. The same sickening dread, a coil of bone in his gut. Cement like certainty,

dragging him down.

  
      Why didn’t she come out?

  
      He edged forward, opened the door and lunged forward. Nothing came at him from the dark.

  
      He looked down.

  
      Carol’s head, lolled to the side. She was propped against the wall by the door.

  
      Daryl’s heart all but stopped. Shuddering at the curve of her neck, the lovely shape of her head.

  
      The sliver of hope that it wasn’t Carol, that the walker inside wouldn’t be her, shriveled into nothing.

  
      He held the knife up, barely breathing as another hope took hold.


End file.
